


some moments last forever but some flare out with love

by the_everqueen



Series: the conservatory au [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Everyone is a Musician, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, conservatory au: the wonder years, or at least plays piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-01 12:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is a pianist. His kids must deal with the repercussions of this.





	1. Chapter 1

Angie chews on her lip as she re-ties the ribbons of her ballet shoes for the third time. Third time's the charm, a harmless enough saying unless you believe it, and then it's an inconvenience. Theo waits, her ribbons perfect, her leotard perfect, her ballet bun perfect, all of her like a figure from a Degas painting. Angie feels bad for making her wait - no point in both of them being late and making Miss Rensselaer mad - so she asks, “What are you doing after this?”

Of course Theo - brilliant and poised Theodosia Burr - takes the question to its farthest possible conclusion. “Well, I could apply to a dance program. Julliard, or UCLA. I would have to train harder. But I'm not sure. I like our AP English class a lot, so maybe I'll get a PhD in that, become a professor.” A beat. “Like my mom.”

Angie meant to ask if she'd want to get frozen yogurt, but the conversation is suddenly big and serious, and now she can’t. 

She frowns. What does she want to do when she's out of high school? She looks down at her body, short and compact, nothing like Theo's lithe frame. Not that she cares. She's only in dance because of Theo anyway, because Theo is her best friend, the only person outside her family she feels comfortable around, and dance means four hours a week guaranteed time together.

Too bad Angie doesn't love English, too. Then they could go to the same college and she wouldn't have to sleep in a dorm with a stranger and deal with classes alone. But Angie hates analyzing literature - she wants to read for pleasure, not to prove some obscure point about the author or make a comparative metaphor chart. 

She's waited too long to finish tying her ribbons. Now she's going to have to start all over.

Theo is watching her, not looking away or tapping her foot or even sighing like Philip sometimes does. “What about you? Have you thought about college?”

“Sort of,” she lies. Crosses the ribbons over her ankles. Once. Then she undoes them and begins again. 

“You could do music. Piano, or voice - you have a good voice.”

Theo doesn't compliment anyone, so she must be sincere, but Angie shakes her head. Standing alone onstage in a concert hall, facing all those people? It makes her sick just imagining it. She can't admit that, though, not to Theo, who does all the solos in their dance productions and never gets stage fright. So she gives the other reason: “I don't want to be compared to my dad.” Alexander Hamilton, Cliburn finalist, three Gold Decca albums on the Top 50 charts, head of the piano department at Kings. Who could compete with that? 

To her relief, Theo nods. “Yeah, same.  That's why I didn’t sign up for orchestra last year. I like violin but it’s too much pressure.”

Her admission loosens something in Angie's chest. Second time - done. She goes for the final tie, the one that counts, and decides to offer a secret in return. “Dad took me to the LACMA exhibit last weekend, after his masterclass, and one of the curators talked to us. About the pieces, in the Dutch Golden Age section. I might - maybe Art History? I got a book from the shop - Vermeer prints and it talks about his style.”

“That would be cool,” Theo says, and her tone isn't bored politeness or sloppy enthusiasm. Just matter of fact, like she believes Angie could be an Art History major and it would, in fact, be cool. “You ready?”

Angie ties off her ribbons. Third time, perfect. “Yeah, let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

Angie clicks Send and feels the walls close in.

She stares at her laptop screen, at the words on it - “you have successfully submitted your application to Columbia University!” - except they don't make sense, the letters jumble into pastel-colored nonsense and the pinks and blues of the vowels make her stomach hurt; she feels the prickliness in her chest that means she is Wrong, she needs a second and third time, except it's an application and she can't turn it in two more times, but oh God what if she made a mistake and now she can't take it back…

With a whimper, she pushes the laptop off her legs and curls up on the bed, burying her face in her sweater sleeves. She wants Dad. He always knows how to make her feel better. He would make up variations on the piano, terrible alternate endings for his current repertoire or read to her, his voice quiet and soothing. 

But he's at Peabody doing a concert lecture and won't be home till Friday. Mom has the little ones - besides, she's pregnant and doesn't need the stress of her second oldest having a meltdown over a vague feeling she can't even articulate. 

Angie is having trouble breathing and her vision blurs. She needs a distraction: she grabs her phone from the nightstand and, on an impulse, presses Call on one of her contacts.

Theo picks up on the first ring, before she has time to second guess her decision. “Angie? What's wrong?”

“I just -” Her thoughts skip like a scratched record.  _ I need I need I need _ . “Talk to me. Just talk.”

“Okay,” Theo says. No questions, no judgment. “Talleyrand went on a tear about what actually constitutes meaning in fiction, whether it’s intention or perception, and this one kid Joseph said the stupidest thing…”

She goes on, about the class and her day and the Macbeth paper due next week, until Angie's breathing evens out and her brain stops running in circles. She exhales, the last of that prickly feeling fading. 

Theo falls silent, out of commentary. Then: “Better?”

“Yeah.” Angie swallows. “I sent in my application for Columbia.”

“You’re a good candidate. Your grades and SAT scores are excellent, plus you volunteered at that museum last summer. That looks good.”

Angie hums. “Dad read over my essay, too.”

“He didn't make any edits, did he?”

“No, I had power to veto suggestions.”

“Good.” Another pause. “I told Dr. Cosway about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s the chair of the Art History department, but she also taught my Art in Literature course last semester. She really liked me. She said she'd keep an eye out for your application.”

“Oh.” Angie's chest gets tight again but in a good way. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn't any trouble.”

Angie gives a breathy laugh. “Sometimes you sound like your dad.”

She can almost hear Theo roll her eyes. “He would never admit to doing a favor for Mr. Hamilton. I think he would die first.”

“He got him the gig at Peabody.”

“Does Mr. Hamilton know it was him?”

Angie thinks of Dad on the phone last week, his lopsided smile making him look less like a world-famous concert pianist and more like their poodle, Pegs. “Mr. Burr, sir!” he yelled, loud enough for all the kids to hear. “... no, no reason - hey, you ever play any Takemitsu? I know a flutist who’s interested in chamber ensemble works…”

“Yeah,” Angie says, her own smile making her voice soft, “I think he does.”

She looks over at the clock - 9:47 pm - and abruptly remembers the time difference. “Oh! I'm sorry, it's late, I'm keeping you up -”

“It's fine, Angie.”

“But you have class tomorrow.”

“Just the Jane Austen class. I wouldn't have slept much anyway.” There's a shuffling sound in the background, which Angie's brain registers as Theo settling into her bed, getting comfortable. “So what pieces are you practicing?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) Norman Dello Joio did not in fact write a piece for piano and sax. he did, however, write "The Ballade of Thomas Jefferson," for voice, so there's that.  
> 2) Alex's opinions about eggs are mine (no offense)

"He takes after you."

"He's your son."

Alex laughs and bumps his shoulder against John's. "Are we sure? Freckles don't run in Eliza's family, and we both have the straight dark hair going on. Is there something you should tell me?"

John rolls his eyes. "More likely you got the wrong baby at the hospital."

"Well, I was gone that one year..." Alex starts the joke but trails off, an embarrassed flush darkening his face. 

They stay quiet for a while, braced against the kitchen counter, listening to Philip practice piano in the living room. It is ostensibly a Brahms waltz, but he keeps swinging the rhythm, adding blues notes between phrases. Like he can't help it, like this is how he hears the music.

"See?" Alex murmurs. "That's all you."

It wasn't like that, John wants to say. His father wouldn’t have let him “waste his time” doing anything besides scales and orchestra excerpts. He wouldn't have turned German romantics into jazz, he would have lain in bed at night and dreamed of Miles Davis on the radio and wanted wanted wanted without release. Philip is lucky to have two parents who love and support him and bring out their musician friends to give him advice.

But he knows Alex means talent, so he hums in agreement.

“Hey.” Alex leans into him. “You know you’re good, right?”

John breathes a laugh. “My calendar is packed with gigs, Alex, I can’t do another album.”

“No - although that’s a good idea, we should do some Norman Dello Joio, make an arrangement for piano and sax - but you. You’re good. You’ve always been good. Not just at music.” Alex makes a frustrated noise, tips his head back so he’s looking up at John. “You’re busier than anyone, and you come out here every free weekend to spend time with us. And you deserve to know that. That you’re good.”

John squeezes his shoulder. 

The front door opens and Eliza comes into the kitchen, a half-asleep James perched on her hip. “Well, Angie and AJ are excited to spend a weekend with Pegs. We can only hope she doesn’t feed them ice cream for dinner. Speaking of which, John, are you staying? You could use a home-cooked meal, I know you live on take-out.”

“So long as Alex isn’t cooking, sure.”

Alex punches him in the arm. “Shut up, I make great eggs.”

“You break the yolks every time.”

“Who wants to eat runny snot?”

“You’re supposed to dip your toast in it!”

“Well, some of us aren’t fancy enough to eat toast with our eggs.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you hit the charts last week, you can afford toast.”

“Boys, mind the baby.” Eliza hoists the toddler in her arms. His eyes are closed and he’s sucking on his fist, not at all disturbed. John figures with three Hamilton siblings, James has had to develop a high tolerance for noise. “Alexander, take him; we’re having dandan noodles and I need to chop pork.”

James snuggles into Alex’s shoulder like he hasn’t even switched parents. The two of them look so alike - long lashes and generous mouths and furrowed brows - it makes John’s heart ache to watch them. 

He ducks into the living room. “Hey, Philip. I liked what you were doing there, with the Brahms. How did that one part go?” He slides onto the piano bench and taps out a fragment of the melody, twists the phrase at the end.

Philip grins up at him. “No, like this.” His fingers move over the keys, effortless, and John starts comping along in the lower register, throwing in some syncopations. Philip crows with laughter but doesn’t stop playing. John stumbles along - his piano skills are rusty at best - and in the background there’s the warm smell of chili and pork frying and the sound of Alex talking non-stop.


End file.
